The truth is elusive it knows where to hide
by saffystarshine
Summary: O/C X Alec. I'm not that great at summarys. Read it and find out. Starts off slow but it'll get better I promise.
1. The Pre Beginning

They say you're not supposed to tell a story until it's over...the truth is, I'm not sure if this even is. They also say you start right from the beginning of a story, when all the weird things started happening. But what happens if things seemed normal but in reality, under the surface, they never were? And what happens if, by the time you realise this, it's too late?

If I was to start at somewhere near the beginning I'd tell you all about my friends and the crap they brought with them and I'd talk about my family and their skeletons in the closet. But this is my story, not theirs, and I hope you see as you delve into the chapters of my life, that ultimately, everything you do whether bad or good has some sort of consequence.

Well...I don't think very much of myself, I didn't back then and I still don't think much of myself now. I certainly didn't care very much of my appearance and even less of my personality. What you saw was what you got, end of. I always vowed that I wouldn't change myself for anyone, because the real people in my life accepted me for who I was. But sometimes there are very real people in your life who somehow manage to change you; regardless of your choice and you have no power to stop it.

In terms of my appearance and personality, my parents always said that often the people who are deemed ugly should be beautiful to match their insides and that the very beautiful should have their faces matched to their insides; cold and bitter and ugly.

With my parents philosophy I am quite thankful for what I look like because, though my manners are generally good, my overall personality leaves a lot to be desired and my looks are very average. If I was a boy maybe I would have been nicknamed 'Average Joe', despite me being a girl my nickname never was or has been 'Plain Jane' though the name 'Jane' would have been very good for a girl that looks like me. By me saying I'm essentially a 'Plain Jane' I mean that I have no striking features and look even more simple than the girl next door, meaning I'm popular with the parents but not so much with the children. I have brownish eyes with some grey in them and bushy curly hair that refuses to stay straight no matter how many times I straighten it or how hot my GHDs are. I'm very chubby too, chubby is nicer to say than fat or overweight and sounds much less stupid than calling yourself 'big boned' which sounds ridiculous. I'm quite short too, no taller than 5'0 but no shorter than 4'9. I'm not bummed by my weight or anything, though it would have been nice to get bigger boobs than my truly tiny A cups, I always thought that bigger girls were supposed to get bigger boobs but apparently not.

Like I said, I'm really nothing special and I'm not one of those people that get lots of guys talking about how hot they are. I suppose my family say I'm pretty a lot and so do my friends, but I doubt that they'd be cruel enough to call me ugly flat out. My personality at times does get more attention.

If I take on board my family's comments then I wouldn't say I was pretty, just someone who takes some time in front of a mirror to try and look halfway decent. I wouldn't say I was cold hearted, just someone who finds it difficult to express their emotions and affection to people. I wouldn't say I was ruthless, selfish, bossy, grabbing or any other negative word which would go with those, just someone who knows what they want. I wouldn't say I was indecisive (with the last comment once I realise what I want to do I eventually set out to get it), just someone who is cautious and doesn't (or tries not to) make a rash decision that they'll regret. I wouldn't say I was crazy, just someone who has two very different sides to their personality and can very rapidly switch between the two (i.e. switching from being calm to angry very quickly). I wouldn't say I was smart, just someone who reads a lot of books and is open minded to pretty much anything.

It seems very ironic that all these attributes that I and people give to myself: pretty, cold hearted, emotionless, ruthless, selfish, bossy, grabbing, cautious, crazy, smart; are the very things that are the most dangerous in this world and are often all given to some of the very most dangerous _beings _in this world.


	2. Early Years

My life began in London, England on February the 10th 1994, born to my mother Florence Blackwell and my father Gilbert Blackwell. As you can see my parents have very old fashioned names so it'll come as no surprise to you that my name is also old – Ophelia Florence Blackwell.

I live with my parents with no siblings in a large house in London for the first few years of my life. When I was younger (and still sometimes now) I used to wish that I did have siblings especially a younger sister or an older brother, a younger sister to have a laugh with and an older brother to protect me. I know it sounds childish, but I wished it when I was very young – about 3 or 4 – though wanting an older brother lasted up until I was around 6.

The house I live at was large, in my opinion too big, for just the 3 of us to live in. My mother only used the kitchen, study, living room, dining room, bathroom and the bedroom and so did my father (with the exception of the kitchen and bathroom). For me, the house was a massive playground waiting to be explored, much to the distaste of my mother who very much wanted me to be the 'little lady' and not play messy games in the mud outside with my expensive dolls and rambunctious games with the little boys from the other side of town at my preschool group.

As I got older, I became more apt at hiding from my parents, letting me play my own imaginary games for hours at a town and trekking games with my dolls across the long corridors.

The grounds were a very dark, foreboding place. I was never fond of them with the spacious lawn with no trees or weeds (thanks to the gardeners) and a wood going round the edges. I avoided the woods (to my mother's happiness) and the grounds (much to my father's dismay).

I had very different relationships with my parents. My father desperately wanted a little boy to carry on the family name and encouraged me to play outside and play sports like cricket with me. He always loved it when he came across me playing with my dolls (pretending that we were fighting off monsters – though he quickly snapped me out of that once I told him we were fighting against vampires and werewolves) and he always wanted me to play the rough and tumble games with some of the boys across town. One of my friends (even though I was roughly around 3) was a little girl called Philippa – who often went by the name of Phil or Philly – who was one of my best friends. My father always encouraged me to play with her as she was boisterous little girl due to her being born in to a family with nothing but brothers. Her family were poor, which surprisingly didn't bother my father very much, but annoyed my mother no end.

My mother however wanted a pretty little girl who was into kittens and flowers and was very dainty and delicate. I think I was a disappointment to her from an early age really. She bought me dolls in delicate little dresses (whose dresses I ripped from playing too roughly with) and little tea sets (which I chipped from playing with too enthusiastically). I suppose all those very beautiful and fancy but very fragile toys she bought me were all well and good, but I was always a very clumsy girl who didn't have much patience when she was younger.

Both my parents did, I suppose, love me but only because I was such a novelty to them. They treated me like a china dolls, despite my father wanting me to be a boy so badly, if I even got slightly pushed he always flew off the handle, acting like I would shatter into a million pieces. They loved me, but not in the way I wanted them too.

I desperately wanted them to be proud of me for whom I was and not for the reasons that I was well-behaved and had good manners and was quite pretty looking as a child.

People would coo and call me 'angel' and 'darling child' – all thanks to my blonde hair which was in ringlets which spiralled to my shoulders and my chubby physique but with the exception of blue eyes – making me look like some sort of cherub. And my mother would simper and smooth my hair and father would always look proud, and I've always thought that that was the very limits of their love for me.

It would be very cruel to say I got no love from my mother actually. She didn't give me a great deal and she still treated me like a little doll but deep down she did care.

Every night I'd ask her to sing to me in her beautiful voice and she would.

'Mama, sing to me please,' I'd say.

'Which song would you like, my darling?' She'd always ask.

'The Lullaby,' would always be my reply.

And she'd sing it to me whilst playing the small music box above my bed which always sent me to sleep.

It's the one thing I still miss, her singing to me in her sweet voice. It was always the last thing I heard at night and when I woke up the song was always still ringing in my head so it was always the first thing I heard in the morning.

All in all, you could say my very early years were protected and perhaps I come across as spoilt. I suppose I do, but I was never very grateful for the things I got, something which still mystifies me to this day. I supposed that everyone was rich like my parents were.

But as I said at the beginning, what if things were never normal to start with?

I had friends, but they weren't the friends that _I _chose. My father picked out boisterous friends for me but always became angry if I was played with too roughly and my mother picked out dainty friends for me but always became irritated when I became too softly spoken and not feisty enough. It was a case of never winning.

None of my parents could look at me either, not directly in the face. It was as if they were ashamed of me. Even when I was sitting eating with them, they never spoke directly to me or looked at me. They spoke quickly and quietly to themselves in soft tones which were too quiet and quick for me to understand properly. They sometimes gave me looks too; as if they were worried I might jump up and snap at them for some reason. Sometimes the looks they gave me were _frightened_ as if they were honestly terrified of what they had created. I wasn't old enough to understand why, but I was old enough to understand that I was something that they were slightly afraid of and were desperate to hide away from people.

I was only ever exposed to their very closest friends and their children. Philippa and the boys from across town were my parent's friend's children – people who they'd known for maybe 20/30 years or me – and the preschool I went to was one set up by my parents and their friends.

Things quickly changed once I turned 5 years old.


	3. Tragedy Strikes, Who Do You Turn To?

As I said, things turned very _different _(for lack of a better word) when I turned 5. The relationship between me and my friends had unfortunately soured as my parents had recently fallen out with their friends. I hadn't heard much of the conversation (which occurred when I was around 4 and a half) though I did hear snippets of it; 'ridiculous', 'Italy' and 'pain' were mentioned frequently and I couldn't understand the meaning of it.

Later on that evening I asked my father (in the best way a 4 year old can), 'Daddy, what was that argument about?'

He looked at me for a moment with thought in his eyes and opened his mouth, then closed it again. Then he looked at me after several minutes and said, 'me and your Mother simply didn't agree with what was being said, darling.'

I always hated it when my parents argued. The relationship between me and friends wasn't the only relationship which had soured.

'It sounded like you _really _didn't like it then.'

My father's expression softened, clearly he thought I'd ask more questions (I was quite an inquisitive child) and was evidently relieved I hadn't. That didn't last long.

'Are we moving to Italy?'

His expression turned hard and so did his eyes.

'If we are, I won't have any friends will I?' Even though I had fallen out big time with the boys, Philippa and I weren't exactly avoiding each other. In fact, she couldn't understand why my parents had fallen out with hers either and we stilled played with each other any chance we could.

'No Ophelia. We are _never _moving to Italy,' my father said this through clenched teeth. On seeing my worried face, he then attempted to make his tone softer and lighter.

'What I really mean darling is that I used to live there a very long time ago.'

The relationship between my parents hit an all time low. They argued every day relentlessly, only stopping when they saw me. They mainly argued about moving...and me.

My mother and I were never exactly close (that was my father and I's relationship) but recently she'd been demanding that I stay close by her. It may have been an attempt at affection, but really it just meant I was her shadow.

She'd go into a blind panic if I wasn't there, calling my name until either my father or I got sick of it and go to her. Often I took myself. Despite the fact that we got along quite well, the arguments with my mother had put father in a vicious mood and I'd already been on the receiving end of his foul temper when I'd played too loudly or didn't come to my mother immediately when called.

The calls of: 'Ophelia, come here.' 'Ophelia, darling, where are you?' 'Have you seen Ophelia?'

This was either my cue to stop playing my games and run to her or for my father to angrily lift me up and pass me to her –like I was some sort of rag doll.

The arguing became worse and worse, and the talk of moving and me became more frequent. My father was very keen for us to move away from London and perhaps move right up north to Yorkshire which my mother was against as she hated the idea of me running around fields on my own and the dangers of strangers. She didn't take into account that we lived in London, which is pretty crime ridden. Mother wanted us to stay here; as she liked the area we lived in and hated the idea of being uprooted. She also disliked the idea of setting me up for a new school – even though I didn't yet go because she was very anxious that I was to be by her side -.

I went to bed earlier than ever, sometimes going up at 7 even 6.30 at night, even though my bedtime was 7.30 or 8 if I was _very _good. Either my parents didn't notice because they were arguing too much and were very wrapped up in their own lives or they just didn't care.

Personally I prefer the first option but I guess I'll never know. The main reason I went up to bed so early was because sometimes I heard my father slap my mother, except it didn't sound like that. It sounded harsh sounding, like someone had thrown a rock. It was a hard heavy _hit_ and I didn't like it. Thankfully I never heard my mother cry out in pain, though by the sounds of it I would be screaming and writhing on the floor.

My mother took to going out a lot, especially at night. That's when the arguments were the worst. I missed her singing to me at night, it was the one thing she did every night and it always got me to sleep. Now I lay there awake for hours just waiting for sleep to consume me. I never heard my father go to bed and I never heard my mother come back in from wherever she went at night.

But every morning, without fail, they'd both greet me with a big smile on both their faces with their arms wrapped around each other.

'Good morning darling,' she'd say and she'd always usher me to the kitchen table, tell me to sit down, and pour me a glass of orange juice and ask me what cereal I wanted. Now that I look back, I was most definitely spoiled by my parents to a degree.

And my father would always be sitting there, always with an empty plate, reading the newspaper. When I was sat down, he would peer over his newspaper and smile at me and give me a little wink.

From an outward glance, you could say that we were very inch the idyllic family though you, reader, and I most definitely know otherwise.

They say that no one knows what goes on behind closed doors. Yet they don't tell you that the people that are living in those doors are sometimes as clueless as the ones who are just spectators.

I never saw it coming. Not by a mile off. One day my mother was there and was actually quite happy rather than the act that she did with my father every morning, the next thing I knew the darkness had swallowed her up, permanently scarring my mind with what I saw.

Mother was so sweet to me that day; it was almost as if she's seen it coming. As if she knew what was going to happen to her.

'Morning sweetheart,' she said. She'd actually come into my room that day and woke me up, by softly singing that beautiful song down my ear. I'd smiled as I woke up and beamed up at her. It had been months since she'd sang me that song.

'We're going to do something today. Get your clothes on, and we'll do something fun.'

'What about daddy?' I still hadn't quite comprehended the seriousness of the fighting between my parents.

I had always been my father's little angel, his little princess, his cherry on his cake, his darling little girl, his little sweetheart, but all those words were meaningless now. He's become as foul tempered to me as he'd been to my mother. When I was younger, I greatly resembled him with curly blonde hair and the same mouth but as I grew older I looked more like mother. My blonde hair turned brown, my button nose became more shaped like hers, my eyes turning darker like my mother's and my build stayed at a short stature – instead of growing up tall like father as the doctors said I would, I stayed short like my mother but got the weight as from him.

'No no, daddy's not joining us today. Just me and you are going to have some fun,' mother said, and she walked down the stairs leaving me in my bed surrounded by my dolls.

I pulled on my clothes, brushed my teeth and hair and walked downstairs with a doll under each arm. My idea of fun was playing with my dolls in the bath tub, or making them go on wild adventures through the lawn (when it was Summer the lawn and woods seemed much less forbidding), or making them go scuba diving in the pond (which always resulted in at least one slightly damaged doll and several ruined dresses). My mother's was something along the lines of baking (which I did like but only the eating part) or knitting (I had no patience unfortunately) or sewing (even worse than knitting).

We did have fun though.

We played with my dolls, mother even took them into the pond though pulled a face when her hand and wrist got covered in pond slime and we played tea parties too, she must have been up all night baking biscuits and cakes for me to pretend to feed my dolls and for me to eat so many I could have burst. Mother didn't eat any herself; she sat there watching me with a smile on her face but with sadness in her eyes.

The sadness in her eyes was so strong that I couldn't quite look at her fully. I couldn't match that smile on her face so the best I could do was to give her a quick up turn of my lips every so often. I did have fun and I suppose mother did too, but the sadness was still there.

My father was out for some reason, I'd heard him leave as me and mother walked out in the garden to play with Rosemary and Matilda (my dolls).

Despite the effort that my mother put in, the fake enthusiasm and all, I couldn't quite bring myself to dare ask why her and my father weren't on speaking terms and why he'd been snapping at me so much.

They say all good things must come to an end but sometimes, when things come to an end, everything good with it goes too.

The good mood that had still been emitted from me and mother soon vanished later on that night when my father returned. Even though I'd never seen my father drunk I used to dread that one day he'd come home, highly intoxicated, and hit my mother so hard she'd get knocked unconscious or she'd even get killed by him. And, oddly enough, sometimes I used to wish he was drunk, just so it could be some sort of excuse (no matter how bad it was) to be so nasty to my mother.

I heard them arguing loudly and that familiar heavy thud and the same silence that followed, only to hear voices minutes later. I shoved my head into the pillow, bought my dolls closer to me and closed my eyes tightly.

I slept very uneasily that night, tossing and turning, unable to keep still, and kept waking up. Eventually I could take it no more, and instead of lying awake for as long as half an hour for sleep to take me, I got up of bed and walked down the long corridor to my parents bedroom. Something I wished I'd never done.

Fate works in cruel ways and I had no idea that my parents had very recently decided not to share a bed with each other, though that night they had temporarily decided to discuss something in the study which was attached to their bedroom.

I knocked very gently on the door. The knocking was met with silence.

'Daddy, mummy, I can't sleep. Let me in,'

There was still no reply, though I heard a faint dragging sound, like the sound of someone being dragged across a floor. A faint scratching was also heard, like when you gently scrape your nails across a stone wall or a wooden floor. That sound chilled me to the bone.

I backed away from the door. I hugged my doll closer to me.

I turned around and stared down the dark hallway. I hated the halls at night. I loved the large house during the day but at night it was like a haunted mansion. Most of all, I really hated the shadows which bounced across the hallways from the trees. They looked terrifying with the spindly branches amplified by the moonlight that scarred across the walls. And the horrible noises that the branches made when they rubbed against the windows always made me feel uncomfortable. Father always told me not to be so stupid when I told him that the trees at night scared me and that the shapes reminded me of monsters.

But tonight as I looked down the hallway, I swear I saw something. It was just a tall shape, almost like a tall figure. I saw a flash of something bright, and then it was gone. I desperately needed the toilet as well but I really wanted to go inside and see my mother.

I faced the door again and, instead of knocking, twisted the handle and opened the door. I put my doll up against my face as if it would shield me from what I'd already seen. There was my mother; at least _some_ of my mother anyway, lay across the floor. The top half of her appeared to be hidden under the bed, though at the time I hadn't realised that the bed _had no gaps between the mattress and floor_ and that I was only looking at half of my mother.

'Daddy,' I whispered. 'What's wrong with mummy?'

He appeared at the doorway which led to the study. It was open. He looked at me, and his skin looked even paler than normal (he was blonde haired).

'She's...sick.' That was the only thing he managed.

'Why don't you help her up daddy? If she's sick she might choke on it and die,' I'd already heard the horror stories from my mother and the warnings to never get drunk. Apparently some musicians had died in circumstances due to drinking and being sick, since then, whenever I'd been sick I'd always made sure I sat upright in bed, just to make sure I didn't choke.

I kept the doll up to my face with one hand, peeking through the material of the dress and the doll's hair, and reached down with my free hand and tugged at her foot. The bottom half of her got dislodged from its position and moved, revealing to me that she was, indeed, sort of ripped in half.

I don't remember what happened next, I just remember hot tears coming down my cheeks, the room swirling and the darkness looming over me, my father moving towards me; mouthing something, but the words not making any sense.

The last few months before we moved house were a blur, partly due to the grief I was suffering from the loss of mother and the horrific way in which I found her, and also because I didn't understand _how_ she'd died.

My father had told me that someone had murdered her and spun me this long tale and that he was in too much shock to think straight. The one thing I could get from all this tragedy that had struck _me _rather than it striking my father was that it was my _father's fault_. He told me time and time again that someone had come in and he was in the study chasing them away. With most liars their voice shakes, they can't you look you directly in the eye, they shift around uneasily from foot to foot, they can't keep their story straight. This was not the case with my father. He did not do any of these things. At the tender age of 5 I was convinced that my father had murdered my mother, but for what reason? I had no idea. I was also convinced at an early age that my father was a very good liar. Everything that had previously come out of his mouth I found that I could no longer trust. I knew this when he announced to me, 'Ophelia, angel, we're moving to Italy.'

**Some reviews would be really nice guys :) just tell me whether you loved it, hated it, liked it, thought it was stupid or whatever. Just try and be fair with your comments please, it's my first time writing. Next chapter should be up by the weekend at the latest.**


	4. Some Place New

It was around 3 months after my mother's death when father and I moved to Italy. With my mother's death now behind me and I had gone through all the grieving processes, you are forgiven for thinking that my troubles were over. In fact, me moving to Italy was just the very beginning of them. I really wanted to move to Florence (purely for the reason that it was my mother's name) but father preferred Volterra. I was against moving there because they very name of it scared me, the very _word _sounded evil, menacing, a place to avoid at all costs.

In the end I kicked up such a fuss about us moving there that father eventually agreed for us to move just outside of Volterraa, a couple of miles away from it. He was quick to tell me that it would take a long time for me to get to school in the mornings when I got older, but I was only too happy to just say yes. _Anything_ to avoid moving to this place that I knew nothing about but instinctively to keep away from.

Father and I moved to another very large house, again it seemed far too big for the _two_ of us. Even though I was over her death it still felt strange to think that for the rest of my life it may just be my father and I. I'd told Philippa about this before we left for Italy and she'd told me, 'If your daddy gets lonely he might get another wife.' That thought had honestly terrified me. I didn't _want_ another 'mother figure' in my life. As much as my mother may have ignored me, I could trust her; she never lied to me unlike my father and she was always pleasant to me even though she treated me like a doll. And now, as I look back, I realise that she did love me. Every night after father and her had argued, she'd come into my room when she thought I was asleep and gently stroke my hair whilst telling me that I was her special angel sent to her and that she loved me dearly. It's a shame that she never told me it when she thought I was awake. When Philippa had told me this I became determined to make sure that my father wasn't approached by other women though my relationship with him had shattered so I didn't really care whether he was lonely. Father didn't care that _I _was lonely, he never attempted to talk to me about my feelings and he hadn't mentioned my mother at all since her death.

The house that we moved to was around the same size as the old one we lived at. It had a smaller lawn than the old house and again it had woods around the outside which a lot bigger and more creepy looking, especially at night. I hated my room too. It was bigger than my last room but it smelled funny -like damp and the smell that moths leave behind in old dusty wardrobes- and the lights didn't work properly either. They flickered on off at alarming times, making the trees outside my huge window grow at an alarming rate as shadows across my walls at night. If I'm honest, the new house frightenened me. The house had the same amount of rooms as the one in England but they were bigger and the corridors were long, winding and dark. There weren't lights installed in all the rooms and the hallways had no lights whatsoever causing me to stay put in one room until my father finally got fed up with me being a baby and dragged me to whichever room I wanted to go to. I also started the horrible habit of wetting the bed, something that I hadn't done since the age of 2 and it humiliated me to no end and absolutely infuriated my father. He hated washing my sopping sheets every morning and hanging them out to dry at lunchtime in the sunshine. I was highly embarassed by this, I was always worried that some of the children that played football in the roads or passed by the house would laugh and point at me. I didn't want them thinking I was a baby. The bed wetting was due to the fact that my bedroom was at one end of the corridor and the bathroom at the other and I refused to cross it when I needed the toilet. I suppose I bought it upon myself.

The village where we lived was pretty boring in my opinion. There wasn't much there; lots of houses (all very big ones like the one we lived at), a few shops and lots of fields and a very large wood. The whole place was too green for me, despite living in a quite rural area previously, I missed the sound of traffic and the smell of 'pollution'.

I went to a preschool there. Father was very anxious for me to start as soon as I got there, I suppose he didn't want to draw attention to ourselves anymore than we already had. In a small place, _everyone_ knows when new people move there. We'd already had some attention as well as this due to the fact that it was just father and I that moved, everyone had noticed the absence of my mother. I was, however, thankful that my father never lingered long there. He dropped me off at 9am and picked me up at 2pm. I was happy about this as I was sure that this meant that he wouldn't get interested in any women that were there, even though all the women who dropped their children off their were married. I'd heard tales from Philippa about wicked mothers and fathers who went to 'be' with other mothers and father, I _knew _it _never _ended well.

I didn't make friends there. For one, all the children there spoke fluent Italian and only grasped a little English so I was the child than no one could understand and the child that couldn't understand anyone. Even though I wasn't very interested in making friends (I was quite happy to play with my dolls), it would help if I wanted to communicate with _anyone_. As luck would have it, father turned out to be fluent in Italian and was actually a decent teacher -provided I kept up, he wasn't very patient.

The other children thought I was strange, partly because at the start I could speak no Italian and also because they couldn't understand why I had no mother. One particular boy called Massimo was very irritating towards me.

'Ophelia, why have you got no mother?' He'd ask me everyday with a horrid little smirk on his face.

I keep my lips buttoned. I didn't want to tell him. I didn't know _what_ to tell him. What would my answer be? 'I have no mummy Massimo because daddy killed her.' What sort of ridiculous child would he think I was? I doubt he would even believe me but I could imagine how quickly it would spread. 'Ophelia tells lies'; 'She said that her mummy got killed by Mr. Blackwell.' It was best just to keep my mouth shut.

I kept myself to myself, that was partly out of choice but also because the other children thought I was strange. I could speak very good Italian because of my father's teaching and because everyone spoke it around me. I wasn't looking forward to school, all the children from my preschool were all headed to the primary school in Volterra and so was I. So I was destined to be friendless. At least I thought I was, it all changed when Cristina found me.


	5. Cristina

Cristina didn't just make friends with me. She _chose_ me. I had to start school in Volterra which involved quite a long walk to a bus stop and then a long ride on a bus towards the school. Now that I look back, I realised that she saw me a mile off. I'd never taken much notice of anyone before, I was always too involved with playing with my dolls or trying to block out Massimo's highly annoying questions and his horrible droning voice that reminded me of a mosquito permanently buzzing around my ears. Cristina saw me on my own, she saw I was vulnerable and desperately needed a friend, so she chose me. She never approached me when I was there with my dolls. She never came near me when my father dropped me off and picked me up. She never spoke to me when Massimo taunted me and asked incessant questions about my mother and why she wasn't there. Cristina finally spoke to me when she caught me off my guard, when I was all on my own and scuffing my feet against the side of the road, waiting for the bus to arrive. Back then I never understood exactly what she saw in me. I was now a very chubby little girl who was the spitting image of her mother -something which pained my father and something which I was delighted at-. She saw vulnerability; that I know now.

Cristina was beautiful. It's odd to hear that when you describe a child but she really was. She had long curly hair which spiralled gently down to her shoulders (mine was no longer curly but more of a bushy unruly mess) and it was lovely deep rich brown. She had a sweet button nose and full lips. She was skinny, _very skinny_, as if she ate no food at all. And she had such beautiful pale skin which almost _glowed_. Her eyes were unusual, they were a very reddish coloured brown. That was why I was so puzzled when she walked towards me, smiling sweetly.

'Hello Ophelia,' she said, she smiled showing very white pearly teeth. Her voice was high and it sounded like a small bird chirping.

'Um hi...' I said. I was certain that I'd never told her my name.

She seemed to understand my confusion. 'Oh, I heard your name when you was at preschool. We went to the same one.' She laughed -it sounded like wind chimes blowing in the wind. 'I take it you're going to this school in Volterra?'

'Yeah I am.' I beamed at her. Finally, I had someone I could call a friend.

'We are going to _best friends_,' Cristina announced to me, she smile again. She linked her arm through mine. Her hand and arm was cold despite the warm weather. 'Best friends _forever_.'

Cristina making friends with me...you'd have thought that perhaps my misfortunes had ceased. You are wrong, reader, my misfortunes were simply _beginning_. I was welcomed quite warmly to the school, Cristina however, was not. Other children avoided her like the plague and the teachers seemed surprised at her high intellect. She told the teachers that her parents were very smart and had always encourage her at an early age to read and write. Still, no other child her age could reel off such information as she could. Cristina could tell you all the states in America and name countless countries in the world with their capitals. The children almost seemed afraid of her intelligence though once the teachers got used to it, they adored her. I was never jealous of her, I was proud that I had such an amazing friend as her, I was proud that _my friend_ could name all these countries and some of the other children struggled with basic mathematics and the alphabet.

The happiness between Cristina and I was sort of short-lived. She was my best friend, my _only _friend. In a way, she made sure that no one else could steal me away from her. She was always perfectly sweet to everyone, though my father didn't warm to her at all. He took me to one side after she had come over to play and told me that 'that girl is bad news Ophelia. Stay away from her.' Of course I paid no attention.

She wasn't always sweetness though, especially when we were on our own playing in our own little world.

Cristina could be my best friend and worst enemy. She'd make up terrible games and make me join in with her. She caught Massimo teasing me once about having no mother, the word finally came out when school questioned my father when they heard me talking to Cristina about father but nothing about my mother. He never said that she'd died, just that she'd disappeared and _never come back_. That was a gentle way of explaining what had happened. She told me to play 'follow the leader' with her after school and we got towards the edge of the wood, at the start of a path.

'Come on 'Phelia,' she said. I'd always hated woods and being with Cristina didn't remove the fear from my mind.

'I'm okay here Crissy.'

She pouted at me.

'Daddy told me not to go in them,' I lied desperately. Cristina knew I was lying the moment she heard me say 'I'm okay'. She _always_ knew when people were lying. Like she could see right through you.

'We're still playing follow the leader. And I'm the leader, so you follow _me_.' She gave me a very fierce expression.

'Okay,' I knew when I was beaten.

'Anyway, we're going to do something _fun_ in the woods,'

Her version of fun differed very much from mine.

Cristina had found out that Massimo walked through the woods on the way home from school. I didn't know how she knew, she just did. That was one of the very unnerving things about her. She just _knew_ things.

'Shhhh. Stay behind this tree.'

I'd seen Massimo walk out of the woods, we were right at the edge of it, and go into a small open clearing. Suddenly I saw a flash, someone or something was running very fast towards Massimo. I barely saw it, I just felt Cristina leave my side and then I saw her dragging Massimo into the woods.

All I could do was stare openmouthed in horror.

She picked up Massimo as if he weighed nothing more than a teddy bear and flung him across the woods. He landed with a splash in the pond. After a few seconds he came up, struggling for air. Cristina jumped in after him. He was dragged from side to side and then pulled under for a few minutes then thrown out of the pond. She climbed out after him.

Massimo screamed as he saw Cristina walking towards him. He was rooted to the ground, his eyes were wide and his face a mask of fear. I was feeling afraid of Cristina too but my face didn't quite match his. I put it down to the fact that he had just been thrown across the woods and almost drowned by a girl at least 8 pounds lighter than him and several inches shorter than him. He gave a blood curdling shriek as she lunged herself towards him and all I heard was a loud snap. I had closed my eyes at this point.

When I opened them up I saw Cristina standing up, not a hair out of place, looking positively angelic and innocent. She was standing over Massimo who was crying in agony, his body contorted and his face a puffy red mass and blotchy with tears.

'Crissy,' I whispered softly. I was horrified by what I saw, but somehow I couldn't take my eyes off him. 'What are you doing?'

'We're having fun Ophelia.'

'How is this fun?'

She didn't answer me. Instead, Cristina peered over Massimo and all I heard was a sickening crunch.

'It just is.'

Cristina hadn't looked at me once throughout the whole thing, though she'd spoken very calmly and serenely. She then picked up Massimo and pushed him under the water, somehow he stayed under. She carelessly wiped her spotless hands on a hanky from her cardigan's pocket and then replaced it.

'Come on Ophelia. It's late and your daddy'll be wondering where you.'

I didn't move, just looking at the pond.

'Come on you silly billy. Last one to the bit of grass is a smelly banana!' And she took off towards the edge of the woods.

I had to peer over the pond, I just _had_ to.

Thankfully I didn't see Massimo's poor face.

I saw two colour contacts floating on the surface.

**So what did you guys think? Sorry it's taking so long to get into but from now one it's going to have lots of vampire inclusion in it. I just had to give Ophelia a back story. I'm not saying anything but not everything is what it seens with her father and Cristina. I'm sure you have an idea though. Please review. I've had quite a few hits. Just drop a comment, one line :D**


	6. Game People Play

I never did ask Cristina about the contacts. First of all she was my friend, and if she didn't want to tell me something then I wasn't go to make her, I also thought she might feel offended if I _did_ ask about them. The most important thing was that even though I didn't fully understand her, I did realise that she was dangerous.

So the only thing I could do was to ask my father about the contacts when I got home, but not after a telling off. The scolding was lighter than normal though I suspect that was because father could still the traces of fear in my eyes and I later discovered that my hair was swept all over my face and my hands were trembling.

'Daddy,' I said, perched on the chair. 'What are contact lenses?'

'They make your eyesight better sweetheart,' he said without looking up from his newspaper. I hated it when he called me 'sweetheart' or 'angel' or 'darling' or any other horrid pet name, because I knew it wasn't true. I wasn't his 'angel' anymore. I looked too much like my mother and it irritated my father, _irritated_.

But the fact that he said that lenses made your eyesight better confused me. Cristina had perfect eyesight; she could see things which everyone else missed. Why would she need them for good eyes?

'They're not for anything else?' I persisted.

'Well...you can use them to change your eye colour angel,' father said. He looked at me.

'A girl in my class wears them and I think her eyes are good without them,'

'Oh. Well maybe her parents let her change the colour of her eyes,'

That was more likely the right answer, though still not a good one. Cristina had beautiful coloured eyes, a lovely reddish brown, and I would have loved those colours in my eyes. It didn't make sense.

I never mentioned Massimo to her. I imagined at first that she'd forgotten about it but something in her eyes suggested otherwise. I was too frightened to ask her about him. I couldn't get the image of her looming over him out of my head.

No one ever found Massimo's body; they never thought to look in the woods. Why would they? The only person who ever went in the woods willingly and wasn't afraid of them was Cristina. Massimo's parents told the police that he was afraid of the woods and wouldn't dream of going near them and the police believed them. _Everyone_ was frightened of the woods. They were dark and had a horrible chill that clung to the air and you'd sometimes see fast movements in the corner of your eye. A little girl called Anna told me that if you looked closely into the woods, you'd see some red eyes looking at you, and if you saw those eyes you were _dead_. I didn't doubt her. There'd been some mysterious cases of people going missing when they were around the woods and the town council had told people not to go near them. It wasn't just the small children that avoided the woods, even the older children around 15/16 kept away and so did the adults.

I felt guilty every time I thought about Massimo. He'd teased me, though the things he said were hurtful, he certainly didn't deserve to _die_. Hearing the news of what his parents said I became convinced that Cristina had somehow made Massimo go into those woods that day. I also felt guilty because I thought it was _my_ fault. I could have stopped it right from the start, or begged her to stop hitting him, or I could have dragged him back out from under the water when she's ran away to the edge racing me. There was always an idea in the back of my head that if I'd have said something she may have killed me like she killed Massimo. She may have simply ignored me and carried on. Cristina did not give out pity or sympathy.

She used to play horrid little games and made me join in. We used to play them all in the woods. I refused at first but she always got her own way. Cristina made up terrible games; _Murder in the Ditch_, _Screeching Pigs_, _Death Bomb_, _Scrabble for Air_ and the very worst one of all _Simon Says_.

Cristina had the knack of getting people to play game with her, even though she was deemed weird by the children at school; she charmed people into playing with her and getting her own way. I used to beg her for it to be just us two. At an outside glance, I may have looked selfish and wanting to have Cristina all to myself. In reality I just didn't want her inflicting her horrible games on anyone but myself. _Simon Says_ sounds innocent but her version of it was worse.

'_Simon Says_ jump on those nails,'

'_Simon Says_ climb that tree and jump out of it,'

'_Simon Says_ hit your neighbour,'

'_Simon Says _hold your breath for as long as you can under the water,'

At first the children would play but after a while some would start crying and there'd always be injuries. Many would eventually refuse to do anything at all. If any stopped playing she'd force them to. Cristina would drag the children over to the nails and _make_ them jump up and down on them until their feet were bleeding and badly torn. She'd pick them up and put them on the tree and tell them to jump. If they didn't jump she'd push them off, and they'd always land with a heavy thud in a painful position. If they didn't hit their neighbour, _she'd_ hit their neighbour then hit the child and tell them to 'stop being so silly 'or 'stop being a stupid cry baby.' The worst one was when she'd make them hold their breath under the water. Cristina would pull the child over the water and push them under, holding them down for as long as possible, whilst the child would be flailing under the water. I never once stopped her.


	7. Moving

**Sorry for the lack of updates, I really am. College has been hectic!**

Like I said, I never stopped Cristina and that's something that I've always regretted, right up to this date.

Our relationship significantly deteriorated too, she despised me when I begged her to stop and when I'd comfort the crying children. She enjoyed the pain.

'Crissy,' I'd say, staring into her eyes. 'It's not right.'

'It's not right. But it's _fair_. That boy Giuseppe picked on you; he called you a stupid liar. That silly girl Francesca, she threw a car at you and it left a bruise on you. That fat boy Salvatore, he _punched_ you. He called you a stupid cry baby too. They all deserve it Ophelia. Whether or not it's right is **not** the issue.'

Cristina had a peculiar sense of right and wrong. Her opinions of what was right and wrong depended on who was pissing her off essentially, I could get away with murder around her, though in her eyes it wouldn't be right but it would be _fair_. But eventually even she got tired of me, she'd glare at me with her big eyes, toss her hair over her shoulders, blank me and give me sly pinches that hurt like pins digging in me when she thought I answered too many questions or talked too much. Cristina took to blaming me too – for absolutely everything. Whether or not it could be my fault wasn't the issue, it just _was_. She thought it was my fault when I had to tell her that my father had decided to move us to Volterra, against my vicious protests; hunger strikes; and general poor behaviour. All that earned me was a sharp slap and I was told to 'stop being so bloody stupid'. My father's temper had still not improved.

I'd invited her over to my house, a rarity as my father seldom let anyone come around. We were sat in one of the many abandoned rooms in the house, a room that my father had _not yet_ renovated, though I knew that he would never get around to it. My dolls were spread out across the floor, their dresses rumpled up, and several books were stacked up to create caves for them. We were fond of playing trekking games with the dolls. That was when I decided to tell her.

'Dad has decided to move us to Volterra.'

Cristina's head snapped up. Her eyes grew hard. 'What?'

'He told me this morning. We're moving at the end of this week...' My voice pathetically trailed off towards the end. I had already known that Cristina would lose her temper; she was never good at keeping it.

'You said you _hated_ Volterra. Why are you going there?' She demanded.

'It's not my fault Crissy. Father just...sort of...sprung it on me.'

'Why don't you stop him?' Her voice was actually shaking now. This was a warning sign. Her voice would travel very high pitched then it would break down and she'd fly into a fit of rage. I started to move my precious dolls out of the way and moved my books out of the stacks and put them near my feet.

'I can't. We have to go.'

'Why?'

I was surprised that she'd kept her temper this long. Any minute now she'd lose it.

'I don't know. He doesn't tell me anything, he just sits in his study all day and reads his newspapers and his weird books and...'

I didn't dare look at her in the face.


	8. Realisation

Volterra was...interesting to say the least. The children at my new were decent though I never quite fit in with the other children. My Italian was fluent now though I spoke it with an English accent. I suppose I never quite got over Cristina and she held me back, though she wasn't physically with me.

I hadn't spoken to Cristina since I'd been in Volterra. It'd been years and I mean _years_. I was now at the age of 16 – a large jump I know to skip but so little happened to me in the years in between it hardly seems worth filling pages about. A brief overview would be birthdays, making no friends, exploring Volterra and watching the large distance grow between father and me.

A big change did happen which I'm going to share with you. I did, in fact, find out exactly what Cristina was, which was when suspicions about my father and what _I_ exactly was came around. Father had shouted at me for some unknown reason and he'd left that morning, forbidding me from entering his study. I chose to ignore his command. I'd figured out where he had left the key, a large silver key with a strange engraving on the handle, which was in an old bible in his desk. I never failed to notice the irony in that.

I opened his study and was unsurprised to find that it contained almost nothing but books aside from an old desk, a cracked green leather chair and a lamp.

In short, I found a book hidden behind a large book on Greek mythology (something else I found funny, father had always hated me believing in _imaginary_ things). It said _Vampires_ on it, nothing more and nothing less.

I'd never been superstitious, I'd always been unafraid of horror films – the crappy gore effects made me laugh and the creatures such as werewolves and vampires I found comical – yet I'd always sort of believed in the unknown. I wasn't afraid of odd possibilities.

As I read through the book a section was titled _Immortal Children_. And as I read the chapter the more I identified it as describing Cristina.

_The Immortal Children are now deemed as illegal and they must be destroyed. In the modern age, they are very uncommon but are destroyed on sight as are the makers and people accused of hiding the Children_.

It was the last part the terrified me more _'...are destroyed on sight as are the makers and people accused of hiding the Children'_. Would I be destroyed if she was an Immortal Child? I hadn't known about it, would I be pardoned?

I curse myself for putting fear into my mind. As I read more of the book, my eyes glued to the pages, the words 'vampire' and 'father' kept floating around as I read more about vampires which described my father. I wanted to scream. I wanted to scream when I heard how vampires were killed. I wanted to scream more when I realised that was how my mother died. I needed to talk to someone, _anyone_. Unfortunately, the only person who listened to my ramblings with some patience and offered suggestions to me was the one person who I hadn't spoken to in years. Cristina. My hand hesitated over the numbers, the other hand holding the receiver to my ear. I didn't know if I dared to call her. She hadn't spoken to me at all. No phone calls, no visits, nothing. Yet, it was always _me_ who had called her. She'd approached me just the once when we first met when we were young. Cristina wanted us to be friends, but now I wasn't so sure. Had she just made friends with me so she could hide what she was? Did she make friends with me for some sick reason that when she was killed I had to be murdered with her? Would my father be murdered? Though the last question only popped into my mind when I realised that I had left the book out in his study and it looked _nothing_ like it had when he'd left. In all honesty, the last question came as some sort of relief to me. Terrible as it is, father and I's relationship was none existent and he hated me. I felt uglier than ever now that I had decided what he was.

Father was a vampire. A beautiful, dangerous, clever, vampire. He was a vampire that I wasn't particularly sure of. Was he good or was he evil? After all he had killed mother, but for what reason? He had taken decent care of me, but why? Or maybe father was the grey space. The _anti-hero_ – no that wasn't him, he wasn't likeable in the slightest. He was just there, a vampire who did good and bad, a vampire in the grey space. He couldn't be accused of being good; honest; caring and he couldn't be accused of being evil; cruel; heartless. At least other vampires wouldn't class him as those things. _I could_. I was not a vampire and I hated him. I hated him for killing mother, for moving I away from a place I thought was safe, from _moving me away from Cristina_.

I went back to the study and tidied it up. Sliding the chair under the desk and placing the book back in place. One thought still niggled at me. I was pretty sure that vampires knew what Immortal Children were. But did father know what Cristina was?

I dialled the phone.


	9. The Phone Call

'Cristina?'

There was silence. Then a quiet voice answered.

'Yes?'

'I-I know what you are.'

There was even more silence. This was a time where I wished she was alive and breathing, at least I knew that she would be listening.

'It's okay though. I-I don't _mind_. I just wish you'd said.'

More silence.

'We can still be friends. I know all about it now. I got nosey. I went into father's study when he was out and found a book.'

'Then you know what happens to people like you. The Volturi are already looking for me...'

'The what?' I was clueless again. Just when I thought I had finally got into the vampire world and managed to understand what was going on I was thrown off course.

'The Volturi,' she paused. 'How come your father never told you what he was? Surely your mother would have...'

'My mother was probably a vampire too. I told you how she died.'

'You're in more trouble than I am.' Cristina said simply.

'How did you get found out? I mean you were always so _careful_.'

'Hm _too careful_. I never went anywhere. A vampire saw me a while back and tracked me, I'd only moved there around 1 week before you did. I made a name for myself in such a short period of time as you saw. But then you came along. You made it impossible for him to find me.'

'So why am I in trouble?'

'Your father moved you to Volterra where that vampire that tracked me – Demetri – lives. He lives in that castle there. That's why I was surprised you even moved to Italy. Your father is probably in trouble with them and you will be too. Your father won't lie; he'll say that you're friends with me. He'll be too afraid.'

'Great. Now my father really will be killing me.'

'Contributing. Look, I need to get away from here. If they can't find me you won't get into as much trouble.'

'I'll still die you mean.'

'Well they might be forgiving,'

'Doubt it. From the way you're describing them they seem pretty heartless.'

'Ruthless too, especially the twins. I'd love to tell you more, you seem so clueless but I need to run. They've probably sent Demetri to find me already.'

'He'll catch up with you if he can track you...' As much as she'd terrorised me, I couldn't picture the image of Cristina lying dead somewhere. Then carelessly _burnt_ or her head horribly ripped off. The image of my mother came into my mind.

'Wait. Crissy you said that he couldn't find you with me nearby. Come and stay with me. I live at the big house at the end of the road.'

'More specific?'

'I don't know the sign came off years ago, no one's bothered to fix it. I live opposite the huge market.'

'Okay, I'll be there in 5 minutes.' Then I heard an intake of breath. 'Thanks. I was horrible to you and now you're being so nice to me.'

'I don't want you dead.'


End file.
